Blowin' My Mind Like a Summer Breeze, page 17
Freddie quits the band shortly after, declaring he’s “going solo” and that he wishes us luck “being led by a girl with a nose ring.”
I try to fit into the dynamic of this unnamed band, whose name is endlessly debated but never settled on, but I can never quite make myself the right shape. And except for Evan, who isn’t half bad behind the drums, not as good as my brother but capable enough, the fact is that these guys can’t really play their instruments for crap. Don’t they practice?
One night we’re playing “Black Hole Sun” by Soundgarden, Christmas lights aglow, when Chris, the bass player, who plays whatever notes he feels like at random with his brown hair dramatically down over his eyes as if there’s a photographer hidden behind the sofa ready to capture his moody essence, pushes me to the breaking point.
“Hold on you guys,” I say, waving my arms.
“What?” Chris says, clearly annoyed I stopped the song.
How do I give this guy feedback without making him an ant I’m about to crush? Maybe if I show him.
“Evan,” I say, “can you play the verse drum part, but kind of quiet?”
“Um, okay.”
I turn up my keyboard and start vamping a simple bass part with my left hand that’s synced up with Evan’s bass drum, then lightly comp the verse chords with my right hand.
“Listen to my left hand. Do you hear how I’m following what Evan’s doing, especially the bass drum? Making sure they match? Playing steady on the beat. Nothing fancy. Just a steady pulse.”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m doing.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. That’s so not what he was doing. “Also, do you, like, know what notes you’re playing?”
“Yeah,” Chris scoffs.
“No, you don’t,” Max says, leaning against the wall and excavating a pimple on his chin, as if he’s been wanting to point this out for a while now.
“I mean, mostly,” Chris says. “For me it’s more about feel than obsessing about the notes.”
I ignore this idiotic comment. “So, this song is in a minor key,” I say. “E minor. That’s why it has kind of a sad feel.” I play the notes of the E minor scale on the keyboard one at a time. “So, like with any song, there’s only so many notes that will sound good with the chords in this song.”
Chris looks confused and I’m starting to feel like the teacher ruining the fun the boys are having in the back of class. I think when my mom says I’m mature for my age, this is what she’s talking about.
In study hall the next day, I make a chart that shows the notes on the first two bass strings up to the twelfth fret, and then one for each song we play, highlighting the notes that will sound good. I may as well have handed him hieroglyphics.
“What is this, homework?”
But it makes him sound a little better.
Another Friday night rehearsal. Another endless pizza-crust-dipped-in-ranch digression where the boys debate whether our first international tour should be in Europe or Asia. Apparently, Asians really dig rock and roll, but the chicks are hotter in Europe.
When you’re in a band that isn’t very good at making music, I’m learning, you end up sitting around and talking a lot instead. I sometimes imagine trying to explain to these boys what my life has been like up to now and how impossible it would be for them to understand.
“What we need are some originals,” Chris says.
“Yeah, but does anybody know how to write songs?” Max asks.
Silence.
“Has anybody ever even written a song?” Evan asks.
As if on cue, they all turn to me. I reluctantly admit I wrote a couple songs over the summer.
“But they aren’t very good,” I say.
“Yeah, right,” Evan says. “I’ll bet they’re amazing.”
Before I know it, I’m holding Evan’s guitar again, playing “Ordinary Girl” for these boys I hardly know.
“It’s about being a girl,” Chris scoffs when I’m done as if he has me cornered at last.
“So?” Evan says.
Chris circles his finger. “Uh, look around, dude, we’re not girls.”
“Rainey’s a girl.”
“Yeah, but there’s more of us. And if our songs are about girls, they should be about dumping girls, or getting over being dumped by girls, not, like, being a girl.”
“Don’t be so immature,” Evan says.
“Name me five rock songs about being a girl.”
“No,” Evan says. “That’s stupid.”
Chris stuffs a huge bite of crust into his mouth. “It’s only stupid because you can’t do it,” he says, his words garbled as he chews. “Seriously, can anybody do it?”
“I don’t see what point you’re trying to make.”
“The point I’m trying to make is that her song is a unicorn and I don’t know if we want a unicorn running our band, that’s all.”
“She’s not running our band. It’s one song. A really good song, I might add.”
“I’m still waiting for somebody to prove me wrong.”
“Stop it.”
“Still waiting.”
“Oh my God.”
“Waiting, waiting, waiting.”
“These Boots are Made for Walkin’ by Leslie Gore,” I begin. “Seether by Veruca Salt. Jolene by Dolly Parton. Dreams by the Cranberries. Silent all These Years by Tori Amos. Fuck and Run by Liz Phair. My Man is a Mean Man by Etta James.”
I can see Evan’s smile out of the corner of my eye.
“Oh my God, you’re even weirder than you look,” Chris says, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
I keep going just to spite his stupid face. “I’m Every Woman by Chaka Kahn. The Pill by Loretta Lynn. Just a Girl by No Doubt. You Outta Know by Alanis Morrissette. Army of Me by Bjork. Dreams, but by Fleetwood Mac this time.” I pause. “Should I keep going? Girls write more rock songs than you think.”
“I get it, I get it, I get it,” Chris says, waving his arms for me to stop as if I’m a thunderstorm and he forgot an umbrella. I think about how much Juliet would love this moment.
“Oh my God, this band sucks so bad,” he says.
“Do you want out?” Evan asks.
“Do you want me out?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“It sounds like you’re saying that.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Are you sure, because it sure sounds like that.”
“I said I’m not.”
“Look, dude, if you want me out, just say so.”
“I’m not saying I want you out, dude, but if you want out, just say it.”
“I’m not saying I want out. I’m just saying this band used to be fun before the fucking Queen of Darkness took over, and now it sucks balls.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Evan says, sounding angry. Chris nods.
“I get it now,” he says. “This is all because you want to bone her. Then you can be the King of Darkness.”
“Fuck you!” Evan says.
“Whatever. I quit.”
“Me too,” Max says.
They both storm right up the basement stairs in synchronized protest, leaving me and Evan alone.
After they leave, Evan and I sit on the couch watching MTV and eating the rest of the pizza. I feel horrible and don’t know what to say. I’m pretty sure me joining the band wasn’t supposed to end with the band exploding.
The Smashing Pumpkins’ video for “Today” is playing and kids are splashing paint across the side of an ice cream truck and laughing like idiots.
“Sorry I scared everybody out of your band,” I say. “And you didn’t need to stand up for me, you know. I can fight my own battles.”
What’s strange, though, is that I kind of liked how he stood up for me. Not at first. At first, I felt a little insulted, but now I’m realizing how much of a risk he took in standing up to his friends, and I kind of love him for it. I want to tell him what a nice guy he is, but I remember something Walden told me once about how no guy ever wants to be labeled nice. “Nice is a death sentence,” he said. “Nice means I wouldn’t kiss you with a gun to my head. Nice means there’s no way you’re ever getting to second base.”
Evan shrugs. “I’ve known those guys since we were little. We have a big fight over something every couple of years.”
“Are you sure?”
“Totally sure,” Evan says.
I finish my slice and take a sip of my Coke. I need to eat more salads. I think I’ve packed on fifteen pounds since school started.
“So,” I say. “What now?”
“Now we go fishing for new band mates.”
“Maybe since we’re starting fresh, we should find some people who actually know how to play their instruments?”
Evan laughs. “Now there’s a thought. Any ideas?”
“There’s this guy in the jazz band I hear is pretty good,” I say. “River McRae? I could ask him. He’s in my English class.”
“Jazz is granny music. I’ll ask this kid, James, in my science class. I heard he got a guitar for his birthday.”
“Jazz is not granny music,” I say, feeling annoyed. “And if he just got a guitar, he’s not going to be able to play it.” Evan is so sweet, but sometimes I feel like I’m his mother. His musical knowledge goes back about as far as Radiohead’s first album. “Have you ever heard of John Coltrane? Ornette Coleman? Billie Holiday?”
Evan counts the names off on his fingers, “Um, let me think here for a second, nope, nope, and…nope.”
I laugh.
“But I have a hunch they’re totally amazing jazz players who you’re going to tell me all about.”
“The only point I was going to make is that, if you can play jazz, all it really means is that you’ve practiced a lot. You think Pat Metheny rolled out of bed one day and could just play like that? I’ll bet if you gave him the charts to most of the songs we play, he’d laugh at how easy they were.”
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t. Say. It.
“Who’s Pat Metheny?”
Track Ten
Something Liberating About Going Too Far
Since I’m really bad at talking to new people, it takes me a few days to find an excuse to exchange actual words with River McRae in English class. But one day, Ms. Ofalko pairs us up for discussion on The Stranger by Camus, which we both agree is a seriously weird but very interesting book. I keep trying to find a suitable pause in the conversation that’s both long enough to bring up the band, but also has Ms. Ofalko conveniently out of ear shot. I eventually find it two minutes before we’re supposed to report our findings of figurative language in part one, chapter six.
“So, you play guitar in the jazz band, right?” I ask.
“Guilty,” he says.
“Cool,” I say. “Do you know Evan Becker?”
River shrugs. “A little. Not really. I don’t think we’ve talked since fifth grade. Why?”
“We’re in a band together,” I say, strangling my pencil so hard it hurts, feeling horribly nervous, like I’m trying to ask him out on a date, which I kind of am, “or we’re kind of starting a new band. Anyway, we’re looking for a guitar player and I wondered if you might want to maybe play with us sometime or something. Or not. It’s okay if you don’t want to.”
“Sure,” River says, looking up from his list of similes and metaphors, “that sounds pretty cool. I can’t right away because I have a butt load of rehearsals for jazz band the next couple weeks, but after that I can. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, that’s cool.”
“Cool,” he says.
“Cool.”
So, stuck in a holding pattern, Evan and I wait.
I keep doing my homework. Keep writing essays. Keep solving proofs. Keep translating paragraphs from French into English and from English into French and hating gym class with a red-hot passion. Keep talking to Mr. Larson, who mentions Matthew almost every time we talk, describing movies they’ve recently seen or the totally adorable trick they taught to Roxy. One day, I bravely ask him a question that’s been on my mind.
“When did you know that you were…you know?”
Mr. Larson is making us cups of green tea. He keeps a whole little tea kit on his desk, all the supplies neatly tucked in a metal basket: assorted tea bags, honey, sugar packets, hot water kettle. “Honestly, I think I always knew,” he says, squirting a thick stream of honey into each of our mugs, and then handing one to me. He glances around to make sure none of the other kids in homeroom are paying attention. “It took me a little while to realize it, but I think deep down I always felt it, even when I was a little kid. Before I knew what it was I was feeling.”
I wish I felt so sure.
I keep having lunch with the Pena twins, whose soccer team lost in the first round of the playoffs, leaving both girls despondent and insufferable at lunch. When Evan starts eating with us full time, the Pena twins occasionally abscond to another group of kids instead. It hurts my feelings a little, but I also understand.
Evan talks a lot. Sometimes too much. But he’s funny and kind. And really smart. He’s the first boy I’ve ever been friends with besides my brother. We lie on his bedroom floor and listen to music, our bodies angled in opposite directions, our faces side by side. I play him Bessie Smith. He plays me Dream Theater. I play him Erik Satie. He plays me Tool.
“I wish I could play drums like Danny Carey,” he says.
“I wish I could sing like Bessie Smith,” I say.
We play lots of Mario Kart. I help him with English. He helps me with chemistry. I have dinner with his family. He has dinner with mine, which Walden teases me about.
“Your boyfriend looks like Lindsay Buckingham circa 1978,” he says.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Maybe you should tell him that.”
Why do people keep saying that? Evan and I are just friends. Why is that so hard to comprehend? Can’t a boy and girl be friends without it getting weird and the whole world falling apart?
But Evan keeps giving me that look, as if my face is the answer to a riddle.
I keep going to Oklahoma! rehearsals every day after school. Keep staring at Mary Hanson, who has an ocean of lush brown hair the color of melted chocolate and huge eyes the exact same color. I think about running my fingers through her hair. Putting my hands on her body. Sometimes the thoughts keep me up at night.
I keep playing the out of tune piano during breaks, and somehow (ahem, Evan), the word gets out. What starts off as an audience of Evan, turns into an audience of Evan and Evan’s friend Ryan, which turns into Evan, Ryan, and Ryan’s girlfriend Bianca, which turns into anywhere from 5 to 15 cast members who gather around the piano and listen to me play.
“I can’t believe you didn’t try out for Oklahoma!” Bianca says. “You totally would have gotten the lead. No offense to Mary.” Others agree.
I wonder what Mary Hanson, who walks around like she was born to be the lead in high school musicals—and I guess she was—would think of this assessment.
Sometimes, Mary comes and listens to me play, though when she does, she sits away from everyone else, perched on top of a pile of old gym mats eating carrot sticks from a plastic bag with her nose in a book. What she doesn’t know, though, is that I’ve been looking at crowds all my life, and I can tell she’s only pretending not to listen.
How do I get close to Mary Hanson? There are so many questions. So many obstacles. I’m two years younger. We don’t know each other. I’m a girl, etc. I think about all the things that would have to happen for me to be in a position to kiss Mary Hanson, and I might as well be planning a trip to Mars.
Daydreaming about Mary is nice, but in the end, it always brings me back to the one girl—the one person—I have kissed. The one person who, even months after the last time I saw her, is still sewn into the fabric of my mind and crushes my heart with a deep aching something. Juliet.
Things I Did for the First Time When I was Fifteen.
9. Fell in Love
The nights have gotten cool, and one night I’m in the treehouse in my sweatpants thinking about me and Juliet and what we are. Are we anything? I know Juliet’s not my girlfriend. Is she? Does kissing someone a few times mean you’re a couple? We only spent a week together, and yet, in my heart, that week feels the size of entire years. I know that I want us to be a couple, that I want us to keep kissing, but I don’t know how to make that happen. It’s impossible in so many ways. There’s the problem of geography, of course, but it feels so much bigger than that. I sometimes imagine us making a pact that we’re going to tell our families on the same day that we want to be together, and though they’ll struggle to understand at first, they’ll support us in the end. Easy.
The line between reality and fantasy is getting blurry. But I can’t help it.
I put on some music, light a candle, and with my journal in my lap start writing Juliet a long letter as a way to figure out all my feelings. I don’t plan on sending it, but I feel the intense need to be honest and I sort of pour my heart out on the page. I tell her how much I miss her. How beautiful she is. How much I wish I could kiss her again and smell her lotion in my hair afterward. How no one I’ve met even comes close to her. The feelings keep coming, getting bigger and bigger. I fill two pages, a third, a fourth.
At the end, I tell her what I’ve already realized. That I love her. It slips out of my pen.
I love you.
I read back what I wrote, and though something inside of me knows I’ve gone too far and said too much, there’s also something liberating about going too far. About saying too much. I’ve held back my feelings my entire life, and I’m tired of holding back.
Riding a wave of courage, I make Juliet a copy of The Treehouse Tapes, which she keeps asking to hear, but I’ve been nervous to share because of how many of the songs are either about her or inspired by her. The next day, though, I ride my bike to the post office, bundle the tape and letter into a small, padded envelope, take a deep breath. And send it.
Track Eleven
